four times dean didn't have sex
by varicose
Summary: and one time he did
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. _

**001**

* * *

His pants are pushed down around his ankles, his face is pushed into the leather seat, some guy's pushing on top of him, and all he can think about is a bacon cheeseburger.

In about three minutes, Dean will be able to slink out of the cab of the truck, into the shadows. He'll make it back to the motel that is almost directly across the street from this truck stop and no one will see him. Sammy won't see him, the gas attendants wont see him, the guy on top of him will drive off and Dean will have fifty bucks in his back pocket. And he'll buy a cheeseburger because he and Sam haven't eaten anything in two days except the free samples at the wall-mart in town.

"Fuck, you're so fucking pretty, _fuck_-" the guy starts practically yelling.

"Shut up," he says. It's better if they don't talk, but some of the guys at these gas stations turn out to be freaks. The last one tried to bite him. This one's not so bad- plus, he was easy. Dean just had to stand under the light by the gas pumps and look his way. Dean's not the only kid who stands under these lights; the truckers know the standard price.

Sometimes, when he does it, Dean imagines what Dad would say if he ever found out what he was doing. But Dad didn't leave any grocery money and Dad's been gone for almost two weeks on this hunting trip. Dean's no fag, but he's hungry. Sam's hungry.

When he's done, the guy grabs Dean's hips roughly and flips him over with surprise force. For a flash of a second, Dean panics, but then he remembers the switch blade in sock.

"Here," the guy says, throwing the cash down. It lands on Dean's bare hip.

The guy's eyes are all full of pride, like he's just scored. Like he's congratulating himself on fucking Dean.

But it's not fucking, it's dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. _

**002**

* * *

When Dean is finally, really, truly, completely, and comfortably dead, he finds himself sitting on the bed of some gray, random motel room. All the motel rooms that he and Sammy have drifted in and out of began to blur together somewhere along the line, and this one is no different. Dean is a little disappointed in the dismal kind of room because he thought his soul would go to the Impala when it happened. But he died, and he's here now, and that's okay too (even though he misses his car).

He isn't sure how long he stays sitting on that bed, not breathing, not really thinking about anything. Then he hears her voice and he's not remotely surprised.

"Hi, Dean."

It's been a long, long time since he's seen her, but Tessa looks the same as she's always looked. With her half-smile and her bright, dead eyes, she looks almost happy to see him.

"Tessa," he says, like she's an old friend.

"Well," she says, leaning back, putting her hands behind her. "Look at you, Dean."

"I'm dead."

Tessa looks back at him with a smirk. "Are you going to stay that way this time?"

"I don't know- I'm gonna miss being alive," he says truthfully. He starts remembering the taste a cold beer on a warm day; the feeling of another person on his chest; warm apple pie; Cas standing naked in the light of a dreary morning. The good things in life.

Tessa looks beautiful in the gray room. Her skin is pale and perfect in the light. Mesmerizing, the look of a reaper, how even their skin seems to draw you in. How it seems to tell you that everything is okay. How it seems to tell you to follow. Death really suits her.

"Can I kiss you?" Dean asks because he wants to hold onto the feeling of being alive, just a little while longer. Tessa smiles, all dimples in her cheeks.

"You can try."

Dean's dead lips find her dead lips and it's almost as if he's kissing the air, but it still feels like something. The alive part of him wants to lay Tessa down, like all the other countless women he's had, and find the rest of her reaper skin. But he won't try it.

She breathes dead air into his mouth, and somehow he knows that it's time to go.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue._

__**003**

* * *

He knows it's a dream because it feels good, but not as good as the real thing. Also, Jo is dead, and he doubts that her ghost would come back to haunt him for the sole purpose of getting into his pants.

Her hips roll against his hips, his hands numbly feeling her ass, trying to squeeze. There's not enough force to in his subconscious to grab her tightly. In fact, he feels like he's only half-there. Jo is the one who looks real and determined, riding on top of him like she never did when she was alive. He wanted this so badly, even when they first met. He's dreamed about it before.

Jo's head is tipped back so he can't see her eyes, but he wants to see them. Soon, it becomes less of a sex dream and more of a conquest to get her to _look at him_

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Or some bullshit like that.

"Look…at…me," he stutters out. Jo still just looks up, bobbing up and down, moaning.

Jo's eyes would sometimes look so sad. Like when she found out about Dean's dad and her dad, and she wanted so badly to cry, but Dean knew she wouldn't. Her sad eyes always looking toward the victim when they lost someone on a hunt. Or when she died that day. Fuck. He remembers kissing her to get those goddamn eyes to close. He remembers kissing her because it would be his only chance.

Jo rides him harder until there's a sensation of soft, warm, wetness all over him. But it isn't come. It's her intestines spilled out on Dean's naked body. The blood starts to splash and splatter as Jo fucks him in it, her moans turning into the dangerous huffs and growls of a hell hound. Still, she looks up.

"Look at me," he tries again.

The howling starts; she's coming and transforming at the same time, a hell hound's thick, dead smell hangs in the air. She's being dragged to hell, clawing at his chest with her big, heavy paws. Dean yells for her to look at him, look at him, let him see those eyes.

And when she finally does look right down at him, Dean wakes up screaming.


	4. Chapter 4

**004.**

Sam's gone. Burning in some cave, in some cage- burning in hell with Lucifer. Dean drives all night, just trying to get shit out of his head; the image of Sam's skin melting off his face; the sound that the earth made when Hell opened up; the sound it made when the pit closed, sealing everything inside. He can imagine what they're doing to him down there. He can more than imagine it.

He finds himself parked in the nearly empty truck stop, feeling hollow. The iridescent lights above the gas pumps remind him so much of the nameless truck stops and gas stations and shitty 24 hour diners and fucking motel rooms that he and Sam lived in for so many years. He almost starts crying.

There's someone standing over by the far gas pump, so Dean shuts off the headlights of the Impala. He briefly entertains the idea that it's some kind of vengeful angel, or a demon who needs no reason to kill him. But he knows that those creatures would already have pounced on him like he's a helpless gazelle, because there's only one of him now and he's at his weakest. They were all right, every one who said the Winchester's only weak spot is each other. Dean would let them kill him now, if that thing in the shadows wanted to.

But it's probably just some kid like him. Or like he was. The kind of kid that has to get fed by getting off with strangers in the back of their goddamn trucks. Dean knows he's guessed right when the person starts to move quickly toward the car, walking with the gait of an insecure boy. Dean settles into the seat a bit, keeping his eyes glued on the figure as it moves.

The kid is scrawny, taps two bony knuckles on the window of the Impala, looks nervously around for cops, for customers. Dean sighs first, weighing the possibilities. He's got at least eighty bucks in his wallet. He's got that absolutely sick, deathly feeling in his chest. The feeling reminds him of a rotten core of an apple. Sometimes Dean would take that feeling and bury it into someone. Into a visceral fuck. He used to do this with Castiel before Cas became more than useable. It's a different kind of power, a tangible one. He could fuck this kid, feel in control for a few minutes until the oxytocin clears. Then what would he do?

(He know what he's supposed to do, he knows what Sam wanted him to do. But the idea of going back to Lisa and Ben makes him feel like he's in free-fall, and he just wants something to hold on to).

Dean starts the car, scaring the shit out of the kid. He stumbles away form the Impala, cursing. The kid's voice is more frail than Dean expected. He hopes that he didn't sound like that when he was at these truck stops, leaning on gas pumps and cars. He throws the rest of his cash out the window as he spins the Impala in the opposite direction.

Dean hasn't got anything to hold on to but that constant ache in his chest. The rotten core. He drives to Lisa's that night, cradling the feeling of his broken insides.


	5. Chapter 5

**005. **

This is how Dean dies.

This is how the world ends.

They spend most of the hours before the apocalypse in the abandoned house that probably belonged to some nice family. There's a forgotten pool in the backyard, all filled with leaves and dead bugs, and an old inflatable ball that keeps, somehow, spinning in a circle. Dean spends a while staring out the window, at the pool, at the rows upon rows of empty suburban yards in the distance.

He looks into the mirror a few times, always surprised by his own reflection. The five o'clock shadow that he's been growing, the wrinkles under his eyes, his face puffy from the drinking. He looks a hundred years old, but he's only 45. Maybe 47. He hasn't kept track of his birthday since Sam died.

The world's going to end, and he can't stop it this time.

When he goes out into the stranger's living room, he finds Castiel kneeling on the trench coat he still wears. He's praying, which scares Dean a little for some reason.

"You think he's still out there?" Dean asks, kneeling with him.

He's quiet for a moment, like he's finishing up his prayer, then he curly says, "God still exists. He always exists,"

Dean chuckles softly. "Must be on vacation."

Castiel looks up sharply, like he's said something awful. But then his eyes loosen and he starts to chuckle, like laughing is a new concept. He bows his head and covers his mouth, but still laughs, and still looks so perplexed by it. Angels hardly laugh, but there are still remnants from the Hell wounds he took from Sam all those years ago, inflicting Cas's strange Angel mind.

"I don't know, Cas. If the whole world dies-"

"How can humankind mean anything?" Cas interjects, serious again.

"Well, we can't all fit in heaven, can we?" He's so tired.

Castiel doesn't try to answer at first. He tentatively raises his hand a few times, like he's about to say something. Then, he bows his head again, dropping his gaze to somewhere on Dean's forehead. He reaches out and grips the back of Dean's neck, seeming to copy the way in which Dean always grabbed him, or Sam, or Bobby, when he was going to say something really important.

"I believe…it's a plan," he says very slowly.

Dean stares back. He nods his head slightly. "Okay."

They watch the last sunset ever come across the hardwood floors of the house. They don't talk about God anymore, but they both think about it, very hard. Dean only wonders if he'll end up in heaven or hell. The answer is anyone's bet; a coin still turning in the air.

When it's dark, Cas turns on his side to look at Dean. The last bits of the moon will crash into the earth soon. The change in magnetism has pulled the oceans to the shores, the world is-half dead, a weak pulse of life. How demons and monsters could have managed this is beyond Dean. They stopped hunting a while ago, they stopped finding the answers to everything.

Dean takes Cas and handles him against his chest, sticks his face into the crook in his shoulder, smells deeply the last scent he'll ever smell and loves it with everything he has left. They take their clothes off, kiss every part. Dean has never had Cas this close. This is the _I love you, _the _goodbye. _The things they never said, or had to really say. Cas never knew exactly how to be when they had sex, he always lets Dean take him and move him and put him _this way _or _that way, _but tonight he keeps his hands in the same spot on Dean's arms, doesn't dare to move.

Dean, above all things, wants to not be numb now.

Later, when they are lying naked, Dean is close to sleep. Cas shuffles beside him, and Dean swears to God, he feels something brush against his stomach. The tickling, almost sharp drag of feathers. Wings, he's sure of it. A moment later, he feels nothing at all, nothing but Jimmy Novak's miraculously beating heart, and Castiel's soft prayers, still repeating.

Dean thinks it's a sign. This is one of his thoughts before he hears the impossibly loud sound of impact in the distance, and the ground shakes so that he can only close his eyes. He thinks something terribly clichéd, like _here I come, Sammy. _

And he wonders if he'll feel Cas's wings in heaven.


End file.
